


Quid Pro Quo

by sharkygal



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, F/M, Going to Hell, Half-Sibling Incest, Humor, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkygal/pseuds/sharkygal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Show me yours and I'll show you mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quid Pro Quo

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Покажи](https://archiveofourown.org/works/548607) by [darkling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkling/pseuds/darkling)



> Written for the ASOIAF kink meme. More GoT than book!verse, age-wise, and not much dirtier than what's in the source material. I'm...still totally going to hell. D:

It's all because of stupid boring needlework.

Septa Mordane's teaching them to make lace, which means thousands and thousands of tiny precise stitches in endless loops. Sansa and Jeyne adore it, already churning out perfect little swatches gauzy as spiderweb, shaped like roses or fleur-de-lis.

Arya is even more awful at lace than she is embroidery (at which she's truly dreadful), and that is why the septa keeps her back, though it's a fluke late summer heat spell and unbearably hot, while the others are excused for the afternoon to rest and cool off.

And so Arya is forced to remain until suppertime, sweating and muttering as her knots turn out backwards and misshapen. She does not get to sneak a bow and practice her archery, as she'd planned. She does not get to go swimming at the river, as some of the older girls decide to, and whom Jeyne talks Sansa into joining.

No, she gets to race into supper late, out of breath and even sweatier, and be totally bloody clueless.

She hasn't even sat down before she knows something's odd. All the girls keep tittering, and Jeyne and Sansa are whispering nonstop, which isn't actually odd except Sansa is blushing all the way up to her hair roots.

Everyone is looking everywhere but at Jon, who's even redder than Sansa and hasn't raised his eyes from his bowl once.

" -- wasn't as big as I'd have thought," Arya overhears Jeyne say. "Not that I've thought about it, of course."

"Of course," Sansa agrees, then bites her lip, hesitant. "Do you...do you think they're all so...hairy?"

"I suppose," Jeyne giggles behind her hand. "I hear Hodor's even worse!"

Very, very odd. Arya nudges Sansa with an elbow. "What's hairy?"

Sansa flushes darker, and glares at her. "Nothing!" she hisses.

"Nothing you'd know anything about, anyway," Jeyne says archly, looking down her nose at Arya.

"I know about more than you!" Arya shoots back, loud enough to draw looks -- and one particular Look from her mother.

Jeyne takes a prim spoonful of turnip stew, just to be infuriating. She even chews patronizingly. "Do you?" she asks an eternity later when she's finally swallowed, and dabs the corner of her mouth with her handkerchief. "Then you must know all about men under their clothes."

Arya's eyebrows huddle together like thunderclouds. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Jeyne says, and spoons up another bite.

Arya's actually going to strangle her this time when Sansa bursts out suddenly, "We saw Jon!"

Jeyne and Arya look at her in mutual surprise. "You what?" Arya asks.

Sansa is wild-eyed as it all comes spilling out in one jumbled breath. "Everyone was going to the river, and I said no, it wasn't proper, but Jeyne said it was ever so hot and the water would be so nice and just this once couldn't we, so we went, but Jon was already...and he was..."

"Was?" Arya prompts.

Sansa's blush spreads all the way to the tips of her ears and down her neck. She looks like a strawberry. " _Nude_."

Arya bites off half a roll, unimpressed, and struggles to talk and chew at the same time. "So what? You've seen Robb and Bran and Rickon, too. Old Nan used to take us all to the hot springs together. I don't see why you're making a fuss now."

"Arya! Don't talk with your mouth full, it's disgusting!" Sansa scolds her, too scandalized for a moment to be embarrassed, but then she remembers again, and squirms. "And that was different. We were little then."

Her food's still too hot, but Arya shovels a mouthful in anyway, just to spite Sansa. "So?"

Her sister looks like she's going to shriek at her again about table manners, but stupid Jeyne butts in first. " _So_ , little boys aren't the same as men, and Jon's almost a man grown," she raises one haughty brow. "Have you ever seen a grown man?"

Arya swallows, grudging. "...no."

"Exactly," Jeyne sniffs. Her scorn is a near tangible force. "You don't know anything about it at all."

She's an obnoxious cow, but she has a point. Sort of. Maybe. Arya stuffs the other half of the roll into her mouth, and chews it viciously.

Soon enough, Sansa and Jeyne resume their whispering, but Arya ignores them in favor of moody, thoughtful silence.

Stupid lace. So unfair.

o o o

Jon's on his feet and leaving before the last spoon is dropped, a trail of girls giggling in his wake. He glances at Sansa and Jeyne as he passes them, turns an even brighter red, and practically flees from the hall.

Arya jumps off the bench, and chases after him, Sansa's disapproving shouts following her all the way out.

She catches up to him just as he's going into the boys' chambers. "Hey!"

Jon looks at her, then turns away. "Not now, Arya," he tries to shut the door in her face.

She shoves her way through, wriggling past him while he stands staring in shock. "It's not fair!" she says, and pushes him. "How could you let them?"

He shifts seamlessly from surprised gawking to confused gawking. "What do you mean, 'let them'? Who did I let do what?"

Arya pushes him again. "You let them _see_ you!"

Color floods Jon's cheeks. His expression goes dark and closed off. "I'm not talking about this with you."

"You don't even like Sansa!" Arya yells at him. "She never plays stick-fight with you or puts mud in Theon's boots when he's mean or sits by you or anything, and you still let her see! You even let Jeyne Poole see, and it isn't fair!"

"I didn't let anyone do anything!" and apparently he _is_ going to talk to her about it, or shout at her at least. "They all just appeared out of nowhere! What was I supposed to do, turn invisible?"

Arya stares at him, lips pressed into a thin angry line. "Show me," she finally says.

Jon's eyebrows make a break for his hairline. "Excuse me?"

"You showed all of them, so show me!" Arya says, hands fisted on her hips.

"What? No!" he squawks, dignity abandoned in the face of outrage. "Half the girls in Winterfell saw me naked today, and that's more than plenty, thank you very bloody much!"

Arya blinks. Jon hardly ever swears at her; he must be more upset than she'd realized. She considers the situation, how to make him feel better about it. "I could show you, too, if you want," she offers. Very reasonably, she might add.

But Jon doesn't seem to be catching on to how reasonable (not to mention gracious) her idea is. He looks downright skeptical, in fact. "What, you want to play 'show me yours, I'll show you mine'?" he says it like it's a big joke, but underneath is a deadly serious question.

Hadn't really occurred to her in those terms, but it's true enough. "Well...yes, I suppose," she dances from foot to foot, impatient, then finally can't contain herself. "Look, Jeyne was being awful, but she's right, I don't know anything, and I just -- I -- I want to know, is all. Don't you?"

Honestly, she's sort of expecting to do quite a lot more wheedling and probably get chucked out in the end...but Jon goes quiet instead. He's actually thinking about it. "Your lady mother would have my head on a spike," he says, which isn't a yes, but isn't no either.

"Only if she knew about it," Arya points out. "And I'm not telling her anything. Are you?"

Jon frowns. "One quick look -- that's all?"

She's got him. Arya grins. "That's all," she repeats, more excited than dutiful. "Here, I'll even go first --"

She starts to lift her skirts, but Jon grabs her hand. "Not here! Are you mad? Bran and Rickon will be coming any minute," he tugs her wrist. "Come on."

Even when she follows, he doesn't let go. Some of the kitchen boys are in the courtyard, and Jon yanks her by the arm into a shadowy nook near the smithy to dodge them.

He keeps her pressed close 'til they've gone past, close enough to feel him breathing, the heat of his body. Her stomach does a queer flip-flop; maybe she ate too fast?

They go to the godswood, or the edge of it, into a knot of spruce. The combined perfume of heather -- come awake and lush again in this swansong heat, the sudden melted snow -- and the sharp green from crushed needles underfoot is dizzying. The night is thick with its sweetness.

Jon releases her at last, going to one of the trees. He touches its craggy bark. "No one comes here this late but me," he says, expression distant. "It's a good place when you need to just...disappear awhile. You know?"

She does know. Perhaps all too well.

Arya fiddles with a new hole in her sleeve. The long walk's given her nerves time to catch up. "I can still go first," she blurts out, brash with anxiety, then bulls ahead as if it was nothing. "It's okay, I don't mind."

His eyes flick over her body, and she gets that same funny squirm in her belly. He glances away. "No," he says softly. "I'll do it."

The moon's near full, bright enough to cut through the canopy. Bright enough she can see his hands shake a little, loosening his laces. He hooks his thumbs into the top of his breeches...and hesitates.

"You're sure about this?" he asks one last time. "You can still change your mind."

Her mouth has gone dry. How strange. She swallows, and lifts her chin stubbornly. "I'm sure," she looks him straight in the eye. "Keep going."

Jon rucks his shirt up out of the way, takes a breath, then eases his breeches down his thighs.

He's pale all over. It strikes her first, inanely, the whiteness of his skin like milk, like his namesake, and his dark, dark hair, thick growing thicker in a path down his stomach to the mysterious place joining his legs.

He stands awkwardly as she examines him. "Huh," she says finally. "It doesn't look like it used to."

"I was eight, Arya," Jon snorts. "That was a long time ago."

It's like the rest of him, long and slender. Pale, too. It looks like it would feel soft, it and the inky-black curls that surround it. "It's big."

Jon looks down at himself, then back at her. "You think?" he asks. He sounds pleased.

"Oh yes," she says. "I don't know what that ninny Jeyne was on about, it isn't little at all."

"Wait, what? Jeyne Poole said I was -- " Jon cuts himself off, shakes his head. "Never mind, it's not worth worrying over."

"Well, obviously," Arya rolls her eyes. "Consider the source."

He grins, and so does she, tension easing somewhat. But there's something in his expression, the way he looks at her, that makes her insides go quivery. "All right," he says in a low voice. "You now."

More demand than reminder, and that's...that's interesting. Why is her mouth still so dry? She licks her lips. "All right," she says, fainter than she'd meant to.

It hardly seems real as she bends to tug down her smallclothes, clutch the hem of her gown with fists tightened to bloodless. Heart thudding, Arya hikes her skirts to her waist.

She can feel him looking at her, as intently as she had at him. More intent, maybe. "It's different than I'd imagined," he says. "Theon always made it out like some gaping hole, but it isn't that way at all. Is there really just that little cleft?"

"No," Arya stares at the trees over his head, ignoring how hot her face is. "There's...more."

"More?" he steps in for a closer look. His curiosity is more naked than either of them.

"On the, you know, the _inside_ ," she clears her throat, pulse rising because he's still coming towards her. "More...fold parts, and a kind of, of split in the middle? It's...oh hells, I don't know how to explain."

He's right in front of her, peering down into her face. So tall now, head and shoulders above her; he keeps growing all the time, and it always surprises her. "Show me," he says, so gently she forgets to be nervous at all, and simply...complies.

She has to sit to do it, and really it's a relief not to stand anymore, her knees feel so strange and wobbly. The scrub grass is cool and ticklish beneath her bare arse, and her palms are sweaty, sticky on the skin of her legs as she rearranges her skirts.

Jon watches, patient -- always patient with her. It's why she always goes to him when there's something she has to learn.

Arya opens her thighs.

"It's pink," he says, equal parts surprise and fascination.

"Huh? I mean, yes," without thinking, Arya opens herself a little with one hand to check.

Jon makes a choked sound, and she glances up in time to see his manhood jump, before he cups both hands over it and angles away from her.

A wave of heat breaks over her whole body. She feels sort of lightheaded all of a sudden. "It moved," she says like an idiot.

"It does that," even in the moonlight and shadows, she can see how dark he's flushed. "I don't...I mean...sorry, I'm...sorry."

He's ashamed, horribly and painfully so. For the first time, it occurs to her to wonder what happened at the river today. Did the other girls laugh at him? Did they act disgusted, or say awful things?

"It's all right," she tells him. "You don't have to be sorry. I -- I want to see."

Jon bites the inside of his cheek, and she knows that look; there's a war going on in him, what he thinks he should do and what he's tempted to. A pause stretches out, and slowly, so slowly, he lets his hands fall away.

Her eyes widen. "It's standing up," and it is, straight out from his body like a tree limb. Arya can't stop staring. "Is it supposed to do that?"

Jon gives a little startled laugh, bemused. "Of course. How else could a man put a baby -- " a look of sudden dawning horror strikes him. "Oh, gods, you do know about babies, right?"

"Yes!" she huffs. "Don't be ridiculous. Mother explained to me ages ago."

Sort of. Something about husbands and wives and being in love, and if a boy ever asks you to lie with him, he doesn't mean to sleep, and also he's a cad and you should tell her or Father.

Robb and Theon had been far more informative. At least, when they hadn't known she was listening.

"Does it hurt?" it looks like it should, all swollen like that. Her wrist swelled once when she fell out of a tree and landed wrong, and _it_ had hurt.

He shakes his head, and the laughter is silent this time, glittering in his eyes. "No," his look is cheeky, challenging, as if to say: _any more questions?_

And she does have one, she's been wanting to ask it all along, really, but it's not so simple. She chews her lip, gazes up at him. "Can I touch it?"

His unease is immediate. "Arya -- "

"You could, too," she interrupts, and hates how bloody...shy it comes out. She isn't scared. She _isn't_. "You know, if that would seem more fair."

He -- it -- twitches again, but Jon doesn't try to hide this time. Instead, his eyes drop between her legs, and he swallows hard.

Jon kneels in the grass beside her, slow like he thinks she might scream or run. His shirt keeps falling down from where he'd tucked it, so he pulls it off entirely, mussing his already wild curls.

His skin looks silver under the moon, his eyes dark and solemn and deep as the waters beneath the heart tree.

Arya reaches a tentative hand toward him.

It jerks when her fingers graze it, and Jon exhales sharply, but he doesn't pull away, so she doesn't either. She's conscious to be gentle, exploring the shape and feel of him with delicate wonder. He's warm and velvety, firm. There's a funny ridge near the end, and she touches it, curious.

"Here," he takes her hand, shows her to tug just so, and a secret hood of skin slides back. Underneath, he's round and shiny as one of the little sweet Dornish apples Uncle Edmure sends to Mother every year. When she touches him there, the muscles in his abdomen flutter.

An answering tingle pulses in her belly, lower. It flares, keen and hot, as Jon settles a hand on her leg.

Her breath sounds crazily loud in her ears, and she's sure he can hear her heart pounding, feel it somehow through her skin. His palm slides in and up, up, calluses trailing fire along her inner thigh, and she thinks she might really die, chest heaving and throat tightening.

He brushes her just barely with a fingertip, and her mouth falls open. "Oh," she gasps.

His manhood throbs under her hand, hardens even further. He freezes. "Is...is it too much? Do you want me to stop?"

She can barely think enough to shake her head. Both of them are trembling. "No," she breathes. "Do you want to stop?"

A hesitation, and something flickers in his eyes: _wanting_. "No," he says, and cups her between the legs.

Sparks of sensation jolt through her, like lightning. Arya tries not to wiggle too much, or make a lot of noise, and fails miserably on all counts.

His fingers are careful, slow, stroking through the fine downy hair she's only just grown. He nudges her open, and catches hold of one of her tender inner folds, rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. "You're so soft," he says. "Like silk."

"Uh huh," is all she can manage. Honestly, she's just trying to remember how to breathe.

He ghosts a knuckle along the center of her, that queer sort of...slitted part she's never gotten a proper look at, mostly examined by feel. He bumps the tiny nub near the top of her, and she jerks, can't stop a little cry from escaping her.

He touches her there again, deliberately, and it's like a flash of heat and sharp and, and _something_ , big and unknown.

Jon presses the whole of his palm against her, squeezes, and on instinct, she curls her fingers around him and squeezes back. He grabs her wrist, closes his hand over hers again. "Like this," he says, and slides their hands together along his length.

She does her best to follow his lead. His skin is hot and smooth, the secret place near his tip like a sleeve, moving easily back and forth. He just watches for a long moment, seeming in a trance, hazy-eyed and breath coming hard, and then the hand tucked between her thighs starts to move.

It's sort of like being tickled, in that she can't help writhing or the sounds that come out of her -- except this feels _good_ , like...like shooting a bulls-eye or getting swept up high onto Robb's shoulders and raced through the practice yard or the first sour-sweet bite of her favorite blackberry tart.

She's drowning in it, sensation roaring through her like a fast river, and it's hard to concentrate on touching him back, but she likes the helpless, urgent noises Jon makes too well to stop.

His manhood's swollen enough to fill her whole hand now -- _cock_ , Theon calls it, a filthy vulgar word but satisfying somehow. She tries it out in her mind, feverish ( _Jon's cock is swollen_ ), and it's the same instant he chooses to rub his thumb in a circle over her.

The heat between her legs flares, melts, and Jon actually moans. "Gods, Arya," he leans into her, forehead against her temple. "You're...you're _wet_."

 _So are you_ , she thinks, and it's true, he's slick and leaking. She'd tell him that, too, but his fingers are insistent, merciless, his breath is hot on her ear, and in the end, she can't say anything at all.

They're both sweaty, panting. He guides her hand to go faster, harder, before abandoning it altogether to bury in her hair, cradle the back of her neck. The feeling inside her keeps building, heavy and growing and tightening, and something's going to happen soon, she knows that, she just doesn't know what it is. It makes her giddy, almost frightened. He draws back just enough to look at her. "Are you...?"

"I don't know," she gasps, clutches his arm, clutches him ( _his cock_ , and oh gods, she's shaking). "Jon, I feel...I..."

"It's okay," he murmurs into her jaw. "It's good, I promise. Just let it come."

 _How can I let it? I don't even know how to stop it_ , she thinks deliriously. His fingers move in steady, ever tighter patterns, slip-sliding, and she rocks against his hand, near out of her mind, close, so close.

(but to what?)

Jon presses a soft kiss just behind her ear, fingers rubbing hard, and the feeling finally explodes. All her insides go mad, spasming, throbbing; pleasure crashes over her in avalanches, landslides, quakes. She cries out in astonishment as much as anything, arching like a bow drawn taut.

It's insanity. It's amazing.

Dimly, she's aware of Jon shuddering against her, grabbing her hand with sticky, slick fingers and drawing it faster and faster over himself. One stroke, two, and he jerks, groans, spilling thick-wet in her palm.

They collapse onto one another afterward, propped together and struggling for breath. His hand slowly relaxes in her hair, slips down to rest on her neck. "Are you okay?"

Their faces are pressed so close, his nose bumps her cheek, and she can feel his mouth almost brushing hers. "I think so," she says, still panting. Her thighs are near as damp as her hand. "Are you?"

His smile is answer enough. "Come here," he says, tugs her to lie back with him.

Arya lays her head on his chest, closes her eyes as his arm comes around her. It's so peaceful like this, so comfortable. She feels boneless, languid, utterly content.

His hand returns absently to her hair, winding it through his fingers. "I love you, you know," he says suddenly.

She can feel his heart beating beneath her cheekbone. "I know," she smiles, uncharacteristically soft. "I love you, too."

He cups her face, turns it to look up at him. "I'm glad you asked me," he traces his thumb over her jaw, her cheek. "Promise me you won't do this with anyone else, not until you're grown and wed."

"As if I'd planned to," she scoffs, narrows her eyes. "But you have to promise as well -- it's only fair. No one else 'til you're wedded either, all right?"

Something bittersweet flashes across his expression, pained and wistful, but then it's gone, and all that's left is fondness. "No one else," he kisses her forehead. "You have my word."

They re-dress in companionable silence, slipping on and lacing up and pulling down until they're decent and only a little more rumpled than when they'd arrived. Cleaning up is a tandem effort; Jon wipes her hand with the inside of his shirt, and she plucks spruce needles and grass from his dark curls.

Arya nudges him with her arm as they emerge from the trees. "We still can with each other, you know," he stares at her, and she's not sure if he's confused or just reluctant, so she elaborates anyway. "I said I wouldn't with anybody else. I never said I wouldn't with you."

Jon doesn't seem to know what to do with his face. He finally just scrubs his hands over it, and sighs, a funny mixture of humor and resignation. "You're too clever by far," is all he'll say, then ruffles her hair, puts a hand on her back and playfully shoves her in front of him. "Now come on, you, before Father sends a search party."

They return without incident. In fact, hardly anyone's noticed she was gone at all.

Sansa is of course one of those people, and she's waiting in their chambers to lecture her for running out from supper without being excused, like some kind of wildling beast. "What were you doing, anyway?" she furrows her brow. "You weren't playing with Bran's sword again, were you?"

"No, it was Jon's," Arya says, and has to bite her tongue to keep a straight face.

o o o

A week passes, and Jon finds her behind the stables, shooting at a bale of straw with a stolen bow. She's just nocking an arrow as she hears footsteps, sees him approach from the corner of her eye.

His hand is sudden on her hip, hot through all her layers of gown and shift and smallclothes.

Her shot goes wild.

He laughs, and she elbows him, which only makes him laugh more. His breath fogs in the air, gone cold again now the freak heat spell has passed; it raises goosebumps over her skin. "I had a thought," he says. His body is solid and warm behind her. Very near.

"Did you?" she's careful to keep still now. Thoughts are a delicate business, and she wouldn't want to disturb this one.

"I think perhaps it was too dark before. I think -- " his hand presses her closer, and her pulse quickens. She feels him smile, lean down to speak directly into her ear. "Perhaps I should have another look. For the sake of thoroughness, of course."

Arya grins.


End file.
